


putting my brains to the test in this old ghost town

by MaliciousVegetarian



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Capture, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Left to die, M/M, Major Character Injury, Near Death Experiences, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26797819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaliciousVegetarian/pseuds/MaliciousVegetarian
Summary: Geralt awakes to find himself in a difficult situation.  He must devise a way to make it out alive, before his captors come back.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 132





	putting my brains to the test in this old ghost town

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Here is day one of whumptober, three days late! For this I am collabing with two other lovely writers (one being wildflower (r0mantic)), with each of us taking a handful of days.
> 
> Warnings: serious injury, captivity, near death experiences, hand injuries.
> 
> Title is from This Old Ghost Town by the Fratellis, which has nothing to do with this fic, I just needed a title.

Geralt wakes to the feeling of his body stretching, straining in ways he’s not used to. The awkward way his shoulders curve, his hands strung up above his head, the pull along his back muscles. He strains weakly, and that’s when he begins to feel the pain.

It starts in the small of his back, arching upwards, threading his muscles and ligaments as it spreads. He cries out as it turns razor sharp, cutting at him from the inside. He is going to be ripped apart, he thinks wildly. There’s no other possible outcome.

As awareness floods in around the pain, he’s aware of a throbbing in his head and a wetness in his trousers - he must have pissed himself. He groans, but the noise does nothing to cut through the overwhelming amount of sensation. His feet are dangling inches from the floor, and no matter how he tries he can’t get them flat on it.

The floor is made of worn wood, dusty and covered in bits of hay. He must be in a barn. Lifting his head feels like a monumental task, but around the edges of his vision he can see more hay, stacked.

He tries to piece together what happened, but all he has is fragments. Thinking only makes the pounding in his head worse, so he stops doing it. He hangs there for a long time, only half aware, taking things in but not processing them. He drifts.

He’s brought back to himself by a loud clanging, making him jerk in his chains. He can’t feel his hands, he realizes. He was so overwhelmed with the pain he didn’t notice. How long has he been here? His mouth is dry, like he hasn’t had a drink in a while. Has he hit his head? Is that what happened? It makes a glimmer of sense, someone knocking him out and stringing him up in an old barn. He’s not sure if he’s imagining the memories.

It’s getting brighter, he realizes. The light _hurts_ , but there’s no way to escape it. It must have been night before, he realizes. He waits to hear people moving around outside, but there’s nothing. The barn must be abandoned. He hopes so, he’s too dizzy to deal with humans now.

He drifts off again.

The light brings him back to himself. It’s shining directly in through the siding of the barn, and it seems like it’s following his eyes. He squeezes them as tight as he can, but he can still feel the light through his lids, making everything go red as it penetrates his skin. He wants to cry, to be able to ignore the world, but he can’t.

This is bad, he thinks hazily. He’s been tied up and left, and he’s in no shape to figure out how to get free.

He drifts a little more.

The world is beginning to darken. He’s been here at least a day. He needs to find a way out, soon.

The wind is beginning to pick up, and it chills him. He must be right by a gap in the siding, because it comes in ferociously, howling around him as if wanting him to know its anger. And he does. He is at the wind’s mercy, and he could swear it knows.

How had he not noticed how cold he was before? The air is icy, and he’s shivering, each shake sending sparks of white hot pain through his shoulders. He wants to be gone from here so badly he could scream. It probably wouldn’t matter if he screamed, anyways. No one would hear him.

He has to find a way out of here, and the first thing he needs to do is to find out what he’s hanging from. He tries to twist around to look, but he just sends himself spinning. After that, he goes more slowly, lifting his head bit by bit. He can see the hay bales now, and a piece of machinery - a plough, maybe. It’s definitely an old abandoned barn, now that he can see the disarray it’s in. The wood has gone gray with age, and boards are missing like lost teeth.

Finally, he is able to look at the structure he’s strung up. It’s a low beam, probably meant for hanging things other than witchers, to dry. The supporting post is thinner than the massive ones making up the barn’s frame. Geralt has a sudden idea. It’ll be hard, but if the wood is in as bad a shape as it seems, and if the beam is the same dimensions as the post, it might just work.

He braces himself, and swings his body back and forth. The pain leaves him gasping, but he does it again, and again. Before long his vision is darkened in agony, but he keeps swinging himself back and forth. After what feels like a long, long time, he feels an ominous creak from the beam. It’s weakening.

He lets himself pause and takes long shuddering breaths. He’s not sure he’ll be able to start it again, not sure he can bear it. But he has to try.

He swings again, and this time he lets himself sob as he does so.

The beam creaks again, louder this time. Somehow, he makes himself swing harder. And then, suddenly and with a deafening crash, the beam breaks under his weight. He falls to the floor, the left side of the beam dislodging, tumbling down after him and landing on his legs. He tries to think through the pain of the impact, but his head is spinning even worse. Small rows of gray squares begin to build in the corners of his vision, crowding out reality. After a moment, he passes out.

He wakes up in the early evening to the sound of the owl’s screech. It must be a barn owl that’s made it’s nest here, because it sounds right above him. He tries to push himself up on his arms, but they’re not working properly. Dislocated, maybe. The beam feels heavier than it seems like it should, and he can’t be bothered to shift his legs from under it. He tries to push up again, with the same response. He flops back down, resigned to lying here until some of his strength comes back. But he’s worried about staying down too long. It’s been a while since he ate or drank.

Finally, he’s able to drag his legs out from under the beam and pull himself into a kneeling position. His arms are bound together, trailing the heavy chain used to tie them up. Like this, he can tell more clearly what’s wrong with his arms - definitely dislocated.

Somehow, he manages to stand up. The first few steps are awful, and the ones after that aren’t much better. His legs burn and he’s not sure why, but he doesn’t have time to think about it. He needs to get out of here, just in case someone returns to see if he’s dead yet.

The door isn’t latched anymore, and he’s able to kick it open with one of his feet. And then he’s outside, breathing in the chilled night air. It feels strangely wonderful.

Afterwards, he’s not entirely sure how he managed to make his way to the inn. All he knows is that when he stumbles to the door, he can hear a familiar voice raised in song.

Jaskier.

He doesn’t have his wits about him enough to think about the sight he’ll make, coming into the main room of the inn covered in dust and splinters, his arms still bound together. Instead he bangs one of his shoulders into the door, ignoring the pain. When it’s opened cautiously, he almost loses his balance and falls through.

He hears a gasp from the inn’s patrons, and then a startled voice calls out, “Geralt?” And then Jaskier is kneeling beside him (when did he end up on the floor?), carding a hand through his hair and calling loudly for a healer and blacksmith and a bath as well. Geralt presses his face into the gentle motion, too spent to be self-conscious about the display of emotions.

Time is doing strange things now. Water is pressed to his lips, and he drinks gratefully. He’s being carried, but he’s not sure by who. Jaskier is asking him what happened, but Geralt doesn’t have an answer.

Someone must have sent for a bath, because when they get into the room there’s one already there. There’s a person in the doorway, and Geralt jerks away from him. Jaskier puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him, and Geralt hisses at the pain. “Sorry,” Jaskier whispers.

The cuffs are cut away, the metal of the shears digging into his wrists. Jaskier begins gently rubbing his hands, which slowly begin to hurt. Then Jaskier is helping him out of his clothes and into the tub. His arms hurt too much to lift them over his head, and he barely feels the tug as Jaskier cuts the shirt away.

The warmth of the water is relaxing, and he realizes how much tension he’s been carrying. The pain recedes a bit, but flares up again as Jaskier begins to wash him, his whole body aching under the touch.

Someone must have sent for a healer as well, because one is there, helping Jaskier get him out of the bath and poking and prodding at him. Geralt fucking hates healers, but he doesn’t protest, because everything has gone strange and distant. 

The healer and Jaskier murmur to each other for a while, and then there are hands on one of his shoulders. It takes him a moment too long to realize what’s happening, and then his arm is being pulled and pushed back into place. He cries out, unable to stop himself, and Jaskier tightens his hand on the back of Geralt’s neck whispering soothing words.

He tries to pull away when he feels hands on the other side. A whimper escapes from his lips. Jaskier shushes him again, then begins to sing. Geralt is so caught up in it that he doesn’t realize his other arm is being touched until it’s pushed into place.

Then his arms are being wrapped, and he’s being helped into a pair of loose pants. Jaskier is guiding him to lay on what seems a ridiculous amount of pillows. A thick quilt is pulled over him, and then he’s asleep.

He doesn’t feel like he sleeps long, but when he wakes up there’s bright morning light filtering through the one small window. Geralt shuts his eyes. His whole body is stiff, so painful he can barely move.

“Are you awake?” It’s Jaskier, his voice sounding surprised. Geralt nods slightly, trying to move as little as possible.

“I’ll have someone get some broth for you,” Jaskier tells him, and Geralt can feel him fussing with the quilt. “Here, lay still. The healer said you’d be sore for a day or two. I have something for the pain, if you want, but you should eat something first.”

Geralt can hear him walking away, pushing the door open, and talking to someone in the hall. Then he’s back, gently carding a hand through Geralt’s hair again. It hurts and feels good at the same time.

Broth is soon provided, and Jaskier helps Geralt sit up a little more, his muscles burning as he’s rearranged. It’s worth it for the broth, though, which is salty and good as he sips it. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

“That better?” Jaskier asks when he’s done, and Geralt hums his assent. “Do you want the pain medication now?”

Geralt thinks for a moment. Normally he would refuse anything of the kind, but right now . . . He nods. Jaskier rummages around, and then a small vial is being pressed to Geralt’s lips. It’s cool and strangely sweet, and he can feel it taking effect.

“Rest,” Jaskier says quietly. “Just rest. You’re safe now.”

And Geralt knows he’s right.


End file.
